by Lori Martin
They called us all out to watch, everyone on the Hill.”
“I’m sorry, Mej. I’m from the Fifth, I don’t remember hearing
about it. But still... it’s no disgrace, it’s no shame on your family. Your
mother protected the archives as long as she could, and honorably.
No one could have –”
“It was Daiv. My younger brother, my pet. He told them.” Renasi took a heavy breath. “A cooperator? In your own family?” “Yes. They made him quite rich. He even got to wear a ring, as
a village leader.” Her mouth pulled up in a crooked grimace. “My
mother wasn’t arrested, apparently he’d bargained for her safety. A
nice touch of family feeling, don’t you think?”
“What did you do?”
“I left our estate. I went looking for Samalas, we’d heard of him
and what he was doing, the people he was approaching. I’m one of
the few who went to him first.”
“Mejalna. We’re sworn on oath –”
“That when our freedom and our royals come back to us, all the
cooperators will die. No – will be killed. By our own hands.” She
opened her palms, stretching out her fingers. “I know. I took the
oath, Renasi, just as you did.”
“It’s a hard thing, to hate your own kin. I am sorry.”
She gave her characteristic shrug, a pushing off of burdens. “Samalas
has harder things planned for us than that... my Daiv wasn’t strong.
Strange, to be born on the Hill of Armas and to be so weak. Are you
going to tell me your grief now?”
“No. We’ve had enough sorrow for one night. You’re better off
asleep and dreaming, and so am I.” He leaned to give her a quick
embrace, a rare gesture among the Defiers. The brief touch called up
the feeling of the halfer’s hands, gripping into her skin.
Strong hands. (I am a Lindahne!)
“And so am I,” she said.
“Mej?”
“Good even’, my friend. Sleep well.”
“Good even’. And may Nialia hold you beloved.”
May her grace... Her mind formed the response, but in her weariness
she forgot to speak the words. Through the darkness she stumbled
to the shack houses.
Chapter 9
The afternoon work and trade of MenDas was winding down. Guild members and their apprentices were closing their shops, rattling gates, pulling shutters; the canvas stalls in the
markets were collapsed and tied down for the night. Samalas and Mejalna rode down the street on the box of a dilapidated two-horse cart, common bread bakers with their apprentices seated behind them among the pots and pans of their trade. They approached the Bread Bakers Guild from the front. The hitch-boy took their horses.
“Been to Oldmarket today?”
“No. Think I’ll stop by tomorrow, though,” Samalas said, casually. The first scouts he had sent into Mendale, two years before, had
urged on their return the infiltration of one of the larger Guilds. If this could be accomplished, they pointed out, the Defiers would have not only a cloak of protection but a pretext for gathering in large numbers as well. He had decided to take this advice. Many of the Guilds in MenDas (including the Pottery Makers, Leatherworkers, Silversmiths and Shoemakers) had large headquarters near the city’s center, in addition to smaller Guildhouses scattered through the town’s outlying streets. It remained to chose which Guild; he had settled on the bread bakers. In the main, customers visited the Guildhouses for their services and goods, but the bread bakers, by nature of their trade, often went instead to the residences of their customers. It was not unusual for a bread baker and active Guild member to live on a private estate or in a noble house in town, along with cooks, weavers and other workers in a large household. Over time the Defiers had been able to put together a small Guildhouse of their own, one that worked in league with the headquarters Guild in the Oldmarket, which was run by unsuspecting Mendales. As Samalas had foreseen, they had also been able to place Defiers in key Mendale households. “I’m sure it will work quite well,” he had said confidently, proudly. “And besides,” Mejalna had added, laughing, “it’ll be much easier for all of us to learn bread baking than to take up blacksmithing or carpentry.”
Though not every Defier could be sent into the Bread Bakers Guild, Samalas took pains to ensure that each one had some other identity, some Mendale life to fall back on in case of trouble; this had already saved the lives of many Defiers in other towns who had had to flee discovery. Here in MenDas, however, their Bread Bakers Guild had been extraordinarily successful. Its security had never yet been breeched.
Inside their little Guildhouse preparations were already underway for the arrival of a prisoner. A floor-to-ceiling back oven, the size of a small room, was being cleaned and laid with straw, for extra soundproofing. Brick slabs were replaced by a feather packed cot.
The workers gathered around Samalas and Mejalna, greeting them respectfully. In the necessity of their disguises, the nobleborn Defiers were used to taking on the garb – and the work – of commoners; among themselves, however, birth distinctions were recognized. Samalas’s deputy at the Guildhouse was the daughter of a former royal councilor, a dark-haired woman named Pojji. “Good day to you, Samalas, Mejalna,” she said. Clouds of flour and dust, stirred up by their activities, settled down again. Mejalna sneezed.
“Good day,” Samalas said. “Things seem to be shaping up here. Does everyone know what guest we’ll be receiving?” Heads nodded. “Good. I don’t want to hear anyone, anyone, use his title or his name. After today, I don’t want to hear any references to him at all beyond this room. Not in the entrance room, not in the avenue outside, not anywhere.”
“And we shouldn’t ill-treat him,” Mejalna prompted. “Yes. We’re not going to hurt him, and we don’t want to hurt his pride, either, if we can help it. If he’s humiliated or embarrassed here, when he’s returned to his post he’ll be angry and twice as dangerous.”
“Are we blindfolding him?” Pojji asked.
“Only until we get him in here; he’s never to figure out where he is. There will be four of us directly involved with him tonight. We’ll take what precautions we can, but we won’t be able to cover our faces. So to make sure he sees the smallest number of us possible, the four of us – myself, Squad leader Mejalna, Master Renasi and Kel – will be the only ones to deal with him while he’s here. Kel will see to his practical wants.”
“We’re not to speak to him, then.”
“No. No one’s to come into this room – unless of course he’s trying to escape or some such. We’ll be mixing a sleepherb into his food, he should stay quiet. But you’re only to use the front ovens; I don’t want him to figure out where he is by the baking smells.”
Pojji said, “Your pardon, Samalas, but wouldn’t it be better to bring him to the spearhead camp?”
“No. We wouldn’t have time to get him there before morning, and the farther we travel with him the more danger there is. By tomorrow there’d be no possibility of getting him through the streets undiscovered. Let’s be clear about this. The Mendale soldiers are going to be crawling avenue by avenue all over the city. What I really need from all of you is a smooth continuation of your daily activities. If you can’t convince the soldiers that this is an innocent working Guild run by loyal Mendales, we’re lost.”
They were impressed by their own importance, as he had intended. “All right, continue working, please. Pojji, a word with you.”
They returned to the entrance room, where the bread selling was conducted every day from dawn to high-sun. Renasi was leaning on the long customer counter, sniffing the warm air with appreciation. Behind him, rows of shelves held that day’s remainders. He broke off the end of a fat loaf and took a bite.
“That’s for ba
rtering for our meat,” Pojji said. “Don’t eat too much.”
“Is it going well here?”
“I think so, Samalas. Almost too well; it’s too quiet. We’ve been getting a little restless, just baking bread. I haven’t been able to place anyone else at important estates.”
“Getting Extos into the Assemblage House itself makes up for anything. Is he safe there? Will he be able to do what we need?”
“Yes. It’s hard sometimes to get messages to him, but he can usually get out to the Oldmarket – he volunteered to be the supply runner for the Assemblage kitchens – so I sent someone there to meet him yesterday and tell him your orders. He said he’d be ready.”
“Wasn’t there someone else in the Assemblage with him?” Mejalna asked.
“Kella was, but I pulled her out. One of the cooks kept complaining she didn’t know her way around an oven, and started asking how she’d gotten into Assemblage service in the first place. But Extos has done very well – he took to the work with a passion. He makes an excellent honey bread.” Pojji flashed large teeth, but her smile faded quickly. “I don’t want to lose him tonight, Samalas. He’s served so well.”
“I don’t want to lose anyone. But we’ll all do what we have to.”
Mejalna’s face flushed. “And Ymon?” she demanded.
“We’ve been through that, Mejalna. It had to be a Squad leader. It could have been you, it could have been me. But we rolled the dice, and it was Ymon. I told him to attack any small group, one that he thinks he can handle. With a little luck, he may be able to –”
“We’re putting him in a terrible position and you know it as well as I.”
“How else, then? How else?”
They glared at each other. Finally, as she had before, Mejalna relented. She rubbed her cheek with the flat of her palm. “I hate it,” she murmured.
“Ymon,” Pojji repeated thoughtfully. “So he’s leading the side group? Then that’s why...” Her voice trailed off.
Samalas turned to her. “You’re a Nialian, aren’t you? Have you had a seeing about tonight, then?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never had one about Mendales. My gifts are not strong. But last night, I did see something, something about Ymon.”
“Is he going to die?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure what –” She struggled. Samalas’s eyes were too cold. She looked instead at Mejalna. “I think he will.”
They had nothing to say to one another. The sounds from the back room, the one-time oven, were quieting. Pojji shook herself. “It’s with the goddess, as always. It does seem to me, though, that we’re counting on luck and timing too much. What if the First –” she remembered Samalas’s warning and paused. “What if our guest doesn’t appear when you think he will?”
“It’s his normal routine. He sups early in his apartments and then he has another supper with some friends, outside of the Assemblage –”
“Which is why he’s so fat,” Renasi said, managing a laugh.
“And there’s been nothing today,” Samalas plowed on, unheeding, “to interrupt him or change his schedule. It’s a gamble, but we’ll take it.”
“Samalas?”
“What, Mej?”
“Perhaps Pojji could lead us in a prayer to Nialia, before we go? We need it.”
The young woman nodded. “I’ll get the candles,” she said.
The Assemblage House, as self-styled wits were fond of pointing out, was a square in a circle. In actuality the square had three long horizontal attachments, housing the Trio’s private apartments. Their balconies looked out on well-kept gardens. The complete structure, mirroring the layout of the city itself, was encircled by a stone wall. The elaborate Main Gate, which opened on to the welcome-yard, faced south. Four other side gates – Southwest, Northwest, Northeast and Southeast – led into the gardens of the Tribunes. Haol’s apartments were in the northern attachment.
Tonight there were archers on the roof, Assemblage House guards at the gates, and archer sentries pacing the top of the outer wall. Scayna and Pirri, marching in opposite directions from the Main Gate to the Southwest and back, passed each other again.
“I liked it better on the roof,” Pirri said.
“I like this better,” Scayna answered. They brushed by each other like bats in the darkness, clothed in the black robes of the army. Then Pirri was beyond her. From this viewpoint, under the full moon’s strong light, she could see the beginnings of the city streets, now quiet. On the House roof, though at least out in the air, she had been caught at the center. Here on the edge it was freer.
She reached the Southwest Gate. Tavo, one of the two guards below, called, “Try the end of that tree branch there. The one at the top.”
“No,” she said again in amusement. Both men wanted to see an exhibition of her archery skills. They suggested a different mark each time she reached the Gate. “If I listened to you I’d be out of arrows before the first watch was over.” She pivoted on her heels, heading back.
“That’s the army for you,” she heard the second guard, a stout man named Jonsa, say. He and his companion were proud of being in the private service of the House. “Too rigid.”
She paced. The air was bitterly cold. On one side, the welcome-yard was deserted. On the other, the city avenue slid away into nothingness. She repressed a yawn.
Pirri neared her again. “Hope it doesn’t snow.”
“Feels like it might.”
At the moment they passed one another, mid-way between the Gates, they heard a shout: an order to halt from Tavo. They paused, glancing at each other.
“Good even’, men,” a woman said.
“Ah, good even’ to you, Chronicler. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a moment while we search your friend’s saddle baggage,” Tavo said. “New orders.”
“I understand. Just be quick, please.”
The man accompanying the chronicler was evidently insulted; the chronicler was heard to say soothingly, “Dangerous times need careful people.”
A horse whinnied. The next sound from Tavo was a roar. “Hold! Identify yourself!”
Scayna walked quickly back along the wall. Pirri, slower to react, paused in confusion, and then followed on her heels. The wall’s curve dropped blackness over the Gate, and Scayna could see only the chronicler, half-standing in her stirrups.
“To the Gate! To the Gate!” the other guard shouted, calling for their help, and she heard the sudden clang of swords. She ran.
The scene before her had been transformed. A cloaked man on foot grabbed for the chronicler’s reins; she wheeled the horse away. Tavo the guard was already in the middle of a furious swordfight with another dark figure. Scayna’s eyes flew: where was Jonsa, the companion guard?
A horse suddenly appeared, riderless. The chronicler’s friend, who must have been toppled from the saddle, lay sprawled unconscious on the ground – and there was Jonsa, yanking back another attacker as he tried to mount the horse. The attacker’s hood fell as Jonsa jerked him sideways, revealing boyish blond hair and a glitter of gold at his neck.
Scayna and Pirri went into the shooting crouch. “Hold!” Scayna shouted. She fumbled at her quiver. The blond man, intent on turning off Jonsa’s thrusting sword, did not look up. Boots ran along stone; sentry archers from the Northwest Gate appeared beside them.
Pirri shouted an alarm over her shoulder, across to the Assemblage House itself. “Attack at the Southwest!”
The blond man plunged at Jonsa, who cried out in pain. The chronicler’s horse reared up, hooves striking out, but she stuck on. Scayna’s arrow pointed uncertainly as the fighters seemed to dance around one another. “Only three, I think,” she said, and fumed, “I can’t get a mark.”
More guards came running. Lights bobbed across the welcome-yard. Scayna shot. The cloaked figure beside the chronicler staggered backward, one hand to his wounded arm. “Ymon!” he shouted.
The blond man whirled in response. “Take the horses,” he th
undered.
Something whizzed across the wall and Pirri fell against her. A red-feathered arrow was embedded below her collarbone.
“By the roaring Valtah,” Scayna cursed, supporting her. “Archers too? Where are they?”
“In the tree,” Pirri gasped. She pulled out the arrow herself; the wound was not very deep. Another of their companions fired blindly into the branches, to the spot which only a few minutes before Tavo had suggested as a practice mark.
The guards rushed through the Gate. One of the attackers had managed to mount; Tavo was on his knees in a puddle of his own blood. Before help could reach her the chronicler was finally unseated; she went down thrashing, a dagger in her hand, but the cloaked man knocked her away. Then he too was in the saddle, with a hand to his wounded shoulder. Scayna fired at him again and missed. Only the attacker called Ymon was pinned down, coping with both the wounded Jonsa and a new guard.
“They’ve got an archer in the tree, too,” Scayna shouted down. An arrow skimmed by her, but she was more puzzled than frightened. An attack of such arrogance! They must be Defiers, of course; but it was pointless; she had thought they had more sense. Storming the Assemblage with so few fighters –
“Go!” the man called Ymon screamed to his followers. “Go, I’m telling you! Don’t wait for me! Go!”
The guards swarmed at the two mounted men, but both kicked hard; the horses leaped forward. On the wall the Mendale women fired; two arrows caught the cloaked figure in the back. He fell across the horse, in a death jerk.
The rebel leader Ymon lurched as if he could feel the blows. Jonsa closed in.
“Don’t kill him, you fools,” one of the archers shouted. “Take him captive! They’ll want to question him.”
Why are they doing this? Scayna wondered.
And then she knew. Knew, at least, where the real danger would be. It had not happened yet, no, whatever it was.
Confused and angry, heart pumping hard in her first real fight, she had not held back her knowledge. Now she did not refuse it.
